


freelancing

by lameafpun



Series: assassin's creed thirst [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex, gender neutral reader, like really light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: A certain amount of hazard in your line of work is to be expected.
Relationships: Alexios (Assassin's Creed)/Reader
Series: assassin's creed thirst [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748839
Kudos: 58





	freelancing

Artemis’ moon shone down the hill, her blessing obscuring you in the shadow of a tree and making the lights of the leader’s house stand out like small stars. From your crouch in the leaves you track the guards. The Captain would stand with his man at the main entrance to the estate all night, occasionally trading positions with the others stationed around the house but focused on the main entrance. Out of them all, you didn’t want to get caught by him the most. Lesser guards would most likely let you go if you got caught in the main house, but stories of the Captain’s brutality had reached the rest of Kirrha through the servants.

Like clockwork, the leader’s men rotated around the house, their torches marking their position better than you could ever hope to do by yourself (as organized as you had to be when it came to endeavors like this). Weeks on end, leading up to this. The biggest hit you’d ever attempt to pull, and for good reason. Thousands of drachmae in your reach — enough to set you up for at least two lifetimes in a level of luxury you had only dreamed about when you were younger. Now, to just avoid being caught and subsequently executed with extreme prejudice . . .

Goosebumps erupt across your skin as you creep across the worn road, ducking into the brush to climb up the wall. Your hissed breaths are the loudest sound in the night, second only to the blood rushing in your ears. Sweat drips down your back. Your clammy hands nearly slip off the wall as you scramble up though the wall itself only comes up to your chest. The rock and concrete blur before your eyes, chips of powdery paint flaking off into your eyes. When you finally make it over you nearly collapse into the well manicured foliage; the adrenaline is only kicking in and it’s making your legs wobbly. The other targets hadn’t been as nearly as high profile. Abruptly, you wonder if you shouldn’t just call this all off and write off the past month. Maybe go back to Aisopos and help around his fruit stand . . . 

The light of a guard’s torch slants across the neatly swept courtyard, making the decision for you. You don’t dare breathe as they pass by. Their patrol takes them to the far entrance to the estate, where they — she takes off her helmet and leans against the far wall with a grunt, rubbing at her eyes. Her mouth opens wide like a lion in a yawn and you’re already more than halfway across the brush, muscles bunching in preparation to grab onto the wall’s handholds. Absently you notice the guard leaning back, head clunking back onto the pillar. Another shaft of light is thrown onto the other side of the courtyard; another guard.

You don’t dare even whisper curses but that doesn’t stop you from mouthing them.

The house wall is taller and offers even less room for error. Hand, hand, foot, foot, hand — _slip_ — catchyourselffortheloveofzeus _breathe_. You don’t think you’ve prayed this heavily to Hermes before.

“Hey — Did you see that?” _Go faSTER_.

Finally, your fingers close over the handle of the tower railing and you haul yourself over with a wheeze. Deja vu overwhelms you as you collapse into a pile of pillows and sheets — the leader’s favorite lookout. No further warnings come from the courtyard.

At least half of your feet skin had to have been left behind on that wall; hopefully the guards had a blessing of Ares rather than Athena.

The pillows and sheets are more comfortable than anything you’ve ever experienced. Sleep’s lure is difficult to resist and you barely manage to, pushing yourself up on your elbows to crawl over to the door. Your hands shake as you begin to unknot the loosely tied rope. So close . . .

“INTRUDER!”

The little hairs on your body stand on end. Focus like none you’ve ever experienced before slows the world as you work the knot, analyzing every twist and turn in the cord until it’s loose and you’re able to pry the door open and wriggle through. The darkness of the stairs doesn’t dissuade you; you descend them like Cerberus himself is on your tail, your scent in his nose.

You trip. The distance between the last stair and the floor was deceptively short, the misjudgment sending yourself sprawling as your knees buckle. Air doesn’t seem to be willing to return to your lungs. Distantly, you hear the shouts of “intruder” and the sound of the door behind you opening and shutting.

 _Malaka._ Your head is still spinning. Were those footsteps?

“ _Malaka_.”

Oop, that’s not your voice. On that thought the back of your chiton is seized harshly, choking the air out of you as you’re hauled to your feet and dragged behind someone who must be considerably stronger.

“P-please.” You wheeze desperately. “I-I’m one of the servants — Abraxos wanted me to stay for nightly duties—”

By Zeus, you should have taken Agape up on her offer of acting lessons.

You’re rudely hushed, the grip on the back of your chiton tightening; you can practically hear the threads screaming. Like a doll, you’re dragged through the halls. Yells of “intruder!” and hurried footsteps accompanied with the clank of armor and scream of steel hound the both of you as your first doubt forms.

“Wait—“

They roughly jerk you to the side, spotting the torchlight in the hallway you were just about to enter — something you miss because your back is suddenly much cooler. You register the sound of ripping cloth just as you catch the rapidly approaching torchlight.

_Fu—_

A hand wraps around your wrist, pulling, and your feet move automatically beneath you. You have no idea how the entire city doesn’t hear with the way you tromp through the house like a two-person stampede. Still,

the search party falls behind as you’re directed chaotically through the halls until you’re back where you started at the foot of the roof’s staircase.

Air rushes over your wrist; you’ve been let go. Moonlight leaks in through the window and — well, they’re a man. His face, while handsome, means less to you than the weapons strapped to his back. A misthios, then. Your savior, the misthios.

Shakily, you collapse onto the steps. You miscalculate and land painfully on your ass. Artemis must have not felt your pleas was sincere enough.

Prayer only takes a few seconds but when you unbend your head you only catch the tail end of the misthios tucking a clay tablet back into his belt. You’ve seen a lot of clay tablets like that — at the statue in the center of town where contracts —

A wooziness bubbles up in your stomach. It’s exacerbated when he crosses his arms and furrows his brows, looking down on you like a god to an ant that has dared to creep onto the doorsteps of Olympus uninvited.

Peitho save you.

“I’m only a mere servant in this household, I —“

He scoffs.

“Help me find a specially made sword in this house and maybe I’ll lose your contract in the chaos of Abraxos’ early demise, thief.”

A whirlwind of gratification (aha, he _had_ pulled out a contract), relief (he wasn’t going to kill you), horror (wait, he _had_ been going to kill you), and guilt (should you be grateful for the death of another person?) nearly overwhelms you. It would have, completely, if the misthios hadn’t waved a hand in front of your face.

“The sword, thief?”

“A moment, _misthios_.” You snap. Maybe there’s time to send off a prayer to Hermes?

A glance at the misthios tells you, no, there is no time, and so you flip through the visualizations you have in your head of the guard’s rotations. The rooms you’ve spied into — which one would house a particularly shiny sword?

“What does this sword look like?”

He shrugs. “Valuable? Well guarded?” His low voice rumbles through you, the adrenaline from the increasingly loud courtyard just outside the window crawling through your bloodstream like lightning. It sounds like the whole house will be awake in a matter of seconds — or maybe that’s the adrenaline speaking.

“Athena clearly showered her blessings upon you.” You thought your voice couldn’t get any quieter but clearly you were wrong because you didn’t have a death wish and the misthios’ brows were furrowing more and more by the second, the impatience palpable.

You bury your face in your hands, hoping the mental map of the house will grow clearer.

“Well guarded, valuable chest . . . well guarded . . . oh!”

It doesn’t take you long but by the misthios’ scruffy face it’s still a few minutes too many; time taken away from actually searching.

“Where?” He reaches for the sheathes at his waist and back — the daggers. Actually, they may be swords.

“Th-the tower! The tower!” Repetition won’t somehow slow the blade spearing your heart, whether it is a dagger or a sword, so his ensuing eye roll is reassuring.

“I said I would not kill you and, by Zeus, I won’t. Get the sword and meet me in the abandoned house across from Sokrates’.”

“Wh-who?”

He sighs. “Annoyingly smart man who asks infuriating questions.”

Well, that’s rude. It does click though. You nod, though he’s already halfway through the doorway.

“But —“

“I’ll find you if you try to run.”

With that he’s gone, leaving you to stand in the staircase firmly rooted in place like you’ve sunken into tar.

“HEy—“ A loud shout in the direction the misthios had left in, authoritative enough to be from a guard, that ends in a grisly gurgle pushes you into movement. As the hall blurs around you, muffled clangs of metal and sickeningly meaty thuds reach you from the courtyard. Still, you keep moving until you happen upon a chest that’s positively sparkling with wealth and engraved with the likeness of the gods in, if not all their glory, all the glory that humans are capable of conveying. The contents don’t disappoint either, and you’d celebrate Athena’s blessing if it wasn’t for the worrying swell of war cries.

You leave the chest empty, lamenting the fact you can’t carry the entire thing with you. Plans to melt it down for drachmae have to be tragically left unfulfilled as you crawl out the window with considerably heavier pockets than you’d entered. When your feet hit the ground you half expect to bound back up onto the rooftops. There’s nothing like a success to inflate your ego and make it swell like a blister. Of course, like with a blister, all it takes is something sudden and sharp to make it —

“You’re in a restricted area!” 

— pop.

You’re sure that sometime in the future you’ll look back at tonight and be glad you’d learned a valuable lesson about not fully standing up until you were fully away from the scene of the crime. That day is not today, though, and so today you’ll settle for running.

When you hear the twang you don’t wait for the whistle to dive to the ground, eyes wild as you spot the arrow at your feet. “Get back here!”

Coins jangle in your bag as you stumble through the dirt. Sokrates’ house was in a vague left-straight-like direction from Abraxos’ but first —

The ground disappears underneath you. For a brief second you wonder if the ground has vanished by direction from the gods, Hades himself opening the entrance to the underworld to drag you down. Then you land horrifically badly and bark your shins on an upturned branch. Waves of painful static reduce your lower, more locomotive half to something about as useful as a pair of slippers on a chicken, making nothing but crawling possible. You manage to scramble over to the other side of what appears to be someone’s yard with only half of you covered in dirt. 

Angry yells draw closer, the guards evidently having taken the longer way around rather than hurl themselves off a reasonably tall hill. Huffing, you push yourself to your feet even through the pain and limp off toward Sokrates’ house.

No one sees you blunder through the streets to the vaguely familiar doorways.

“Misthios?” You whisper into the night, moving shadow to shadow as deja vu looms in the back of your mind at the searching guards chasing after you. Sokrates’ house passes by as you creep across the road, the abandoned building stretching above you and the expanse of the sea not far beyond. “Did you make it? Misthios?”

Despite yourself, you raise your voice and the arm that shoots out to grab you is almost instantaneous. You’re dragged through a doorway into a small courtyard that smells of old straw and chickens, though the disrepair draws your initial attention the most. It doesn’t measure to the face you’re greeted with, though.

His frustration is palpable. “Do you not hear the guards? You drew them to us!”

A rhetorical question most likely but you have something to say anyway.

You lick his hand.

His response is not a disgusted huff but to wipe his hand on your clothes. Fair.

You lock eyes with the misthios.

“I’m not an idiot —What are we going to do?”

“We?” He looks you over and your vulnerability burns.

“Yes, _we_.” You hiss, fatigue fading. “ _I_ got the sword and —“

“Which wouldn’t have been necessary if the guards hadn’t been alerted!”

“Then you should have been quieter!”

“So I could fall behind as a thief ran off with my drachmae?”

You bristle, the tension in his frame only fanning your flames. “Thief! Coming from a misthios—“

It isn’t quite a slam against the wall — maybe more of a smush — but whatever its classification, it knocks the breath out of your lungs. His hand is back on your mouth (and your nose, his hands are huge) as he peers over your head, the agitated commands finally reaching through the daze. The arm pressing your torso into the wall doesn’t help.

“They’re spreading out.” He grumbles lowly. The vibrations of his voice go right through you — combined with the lightheadedness you can’t quite help the shudder that wracks your body or the wave of warmth that radiates out from the funny little area just below your stomach. Oh, Zeus. Actually, wait, no, not Zeus. Maybe you should pray to Hera? Or Ares?

The misthios doesn’t separate from you, focused on the patrol that’s drawing closer and closer to your hiding spot. Your recently liberated coin and the stupid sword is digging into your side — on the wrong . . . side?

Your whole body flushes. The thought that maybe it’s just the mild asphyxiation getting to you crosses your mind but then the misthios shifts and the sword shifts with him. Well, you could say something but then you’d feel like a hypocrite.

A chiton isn’t really meant to conceal all that much, after all.

It must be the lack of air this time (or the surge of electricity, the blood pumping through your veins and the hair standing on end all over your body) because the urge to succumb to your more base desires overwhelms you — you push your hips into his.

Neither of you are focused on anything beyond the courtyard now. That there’s a group of guards hunting you down only adds another level of urgency. Beyond that you can’t bring yourself to care, and if it is your undoing then you’ll enjoy this while it lasts.

As soon as he reciprocates, you’re gone.

His muscles aren’t purely for show, as much as you enjoy them. He spins you to face the wall, your cheek scraping against the clay, and pins you into place with his body while his hand works at your perizoma with a dexterity you’d be envious of if you weren’t just as anxious to get it off. You brace yourself against the wall as best you can though your hands itch to touch the misthios, to claw and scratch and mark. Linen falls to the ground.

His hand loosens around your mouth as cloth and leather rustles behind you; his armor. Even within the space of a few seconds you grow impatient. Your pleas are low whimpers and the way you rock back into his hips, reveling in the rumbly low growl and the heat that burns even through the fabric of the chiton; you don’t need a knee between your thighs to widen your stance. With a brush of his hands against the fabric at your hips it’s all skin on skin, every inch of his front molded against your back as you arch.

No time is wasted. He sinks into you with a short lived patience that, at any other time, would’ve had you making noises like a well trained hetaera. If he asked you in this moment, you’d readily promise to compose a poem to his prowess — it wasn’t like it wouldn’t be well deserved. He certainly knew how to use his cock, how to made it drag against your walls in a way that made you shiver and want more.

Quick, shallow thrusts follow, his restraint admirable if not infuriating. You can tell it’s an effort; you mirror the harshness of his breaths and his grip on the flesh of you hip is bruising.

It shifts, his hands suddenly more claw-like and the bite of his nails sends a surge of lightning through your body. Steadily, you can feel the beginnings of your end build. You chase after it with a hand at your center as sweat drips down the back of your neck, teeth digging in to your bottom lip as the image of the misthios’ handsome face plays in your mind.

Somewhere above you a bird cries. His breath catches and the surety of shallow is interrupted by a long roll of his hips that makes your legs shake and draws a low moan from your throat.

“More, misthios.” The order loses a bit of its authority at the whine in your voice.

“You will take what I offer.” He grunts. “ _Thief_.”

“You- _ooooh_.”

He’s pressed himself as close to you as he can without crushing you absolutely while his hands yank your hips back into his, pressing in deep and hard enough to be on the edge of painful. Your fingers twist around your center frantically — you’re so close that it’s a type of pain all by itself.

Every stroke is now as deep as the first, both of you chasing your own pleasure.

You come first, tightening around the misthios with a breathy moan. He growls in frustration as you sag against the wall, immobile. His arms wrap around you and hold your tired body to his front, fucking you through the weaker pulses that still wrack your body with irregular, desperate thrusts until his hips stutter.

In the heat of the moment, throwing your undergarments into the dirt sound like a good idea until you have to knock the dirt out of them later. They’re still your only pair of undergarments so you tie them on with a wince, your misthios doing the same.

It knots again easily and you’re left in a small courtyard with the misthios. His armor takes longer to shrug on. The process has a sort of flow to it that you can’t help but admire, his smooth movements betraying an absurd amount of repetition.

“Would you like to join my crew?” He doesn’t look up from buckling one of his belts.

“I — _What_? I don’t even know your name.”

“Alexios.”

“What?” He shrugs.  
“My name.”

You introduce yourself on instinct, still reeling.

“Why?”

“You’re capable enough and I need hands on my ship. Even if you were to stay here, I don’t think you’d be very welcome.”

He isn’t wrong; all it took was one guard to recognize you and you’d be thrown out of town.

You sigh. At least you have all your worldly possessions on you, anyway.

“Well, Alexios, lead on I suppose.”

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i just wanted to write wall sex but, man, i really need to work on the actual writing part. i have such a clear mental picture but i guess that's just the difficulty of writing lmao


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